Fun Poetry

ant-mac

Member: Rank 9
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Got a favourite poem? Post it here.




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Here's my personal favourite. It always causes the hair on the back of my neck to raise up.

And perhaps a tear or two to form...

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Charge," was the captain's cry;
Their's not to reason why,
Their's not to make reply,
Their's but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd all at once in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Fiercely the line they broke;
Strong was the sabre-stroke;
Making an army reel
Shaken and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
They that had struck so well
Rode thro' the jaws of Death,
Half a league back again,
Up from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

Honour the brave and bold!
Long shall the tale be told,
Yea, when our babes are old -
How they rode onward.

The End.
 
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ant-mac

Member: Rank 9
And an alternative version of the above poem, which I enjoy just as much...

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

The End.
 

ant-mac

Member: Rank 9
And another poem I enjoy...

KUBLA KHAN

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

The End.
 

chainsaw_metal1

Member: Rank 8
Roses are red-ish
Violets are blue-ish
If it wasn't for Christmas
We'd all be Jewish

There once was a man named Dave
Who kept a dead whore in a cave
One day he thought,
"I'm dead if I'm caught,
but think of the money I've saved"

Roses are red
Bacon is red
Poetry is hard
Bacon
 

ant-mac

Member: Rank 9
POEM

I wrote my little poem,
To prove that I am smart,
To prove my rhyming words,
Is really quite an art.

A poem should have some style,
A poem should have some class,
But my poem doesn't,
So stick that right up your arse!

I could write about misfortune,
Or I could write about good luck,
But I see by your expression,
You don't really give a fuck!

This poem's been so easy,
There hasn't been a hitch,
And you're sitting thinking,
You smart arse son of a bitch!

So tell me you're impressed,
With the way I join the bits,
With the way I rhyme the words,
Or have you got the shits?

I really wrote this poem,
Just to be a prick,
Just to piss you off,
So I'd better finish quick!

Here's the final stanza,
And hasn't it been fun,
But now you can all fuck off,
Because now my poem's done!
 

chainsaw_metal1

Member: Rank 8
Keats himself would be brought to tears, good sir. Never have words been put in such an order that, when read, they said those exact things. Thank you.

Thank you.
 

ant-mac

Member: Rank 9
SHOCK

It was early in the morning,
I was woken by the clock,
I turned on the radio,
And I got a nasty shock!

I heard the latest news,
Global thermal nuclear war,
The end had finally started,
Would I die in blood and gore?

I had a fallout shelter,
And I wished to stay alive,
If I made it to the shelter,
I felt sure I could survive.

On my way out to the shelter,
I made sure I had my gun,
I shot and killed the milkman,
Before I knew what I had done!

Before I could recover,
My nearest neighbour came to look,
I felt the panic grip me,
So my neighbour's life I took.

Two policemen came to see,
I didn't know what I should do,
I made a snap decision,
And I blew their heads off too!

I made it to the shelter,
Where I knew that I must stay,
I turned on the radio,
A fucking radio play...
 

High Plains Drifter

The Drifter
VIP
Sadly, I can not write poetry. The best I can do is point out different rhyming schemes in them. This also goes the same for songs. Both poetry and songs have a rhyming scheme in them. I tend to view songs sort of like poetry at times if it flows just right.

The Face upon the Barroom Floor
Poem by Hugh Antoine d'Arcy
'
'Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there
Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom on the corner of the square,
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" Someone said. "The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried, "Some whisky, rum or gin?"
"Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work --
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, He's as filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In fact, he smiled as though he thought he’d struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd --
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud."

"Give me a drink -- that's what I want -- I'm out of funds, you know;
When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou:
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as anyone of you."

"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can't do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"Say, Give me another whiskey ,and I'll tell you what I'll do --
I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think;
But, I was some four of five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame--
Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame;
Five fingers --there, that's the scheme -- and corking whisky, too.
Well, here’s luck, boys; and, landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle , frame, and health,
And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter -- not one that daubed on bricks and wood
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame.'
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name.
And then I met a woman -- now comes the funny part --
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips met mine it carried me to heaven.

"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way,
And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,
Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown
My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone;
And, ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,
I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.
Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye,
Come, laugh like me; 'tis only babes and women that should cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey, I'll be glad,
And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score --
And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor."

Another drink, and with chalk in hand the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,
With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture -- dead.
 

duzit

Member: Rank 6
This is a poem I have loved since forever. I re-read it whenever life gets out of sorts.
Desiderata
Latin: "desired things"
Written by ~ Max Ehrmann (1927)

 
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